Category: Poems

Cradle the egg in your hand,
Just because you are Man
doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate
the egg did not mate
or the little embryo lying inside
That would shiver, slide and glide
in it’s little home.

So tap it, once, twice, thrice
against the kitchen table.
Be gentle, little chef
the little soul that once was, left
to fade into the universe, somewhere
In-between; beyond you and me
Mixing with the salt, peppers and tomatoes
—It’s little soul dancing on your nose—

The chicken-that-could-be sizzles on your pan
till it solidifies, turns white
You lick it with your teeth
perhaps even with a little ground beef
And because of it,
you will live well today, sleep well tonight
The baby chicken in your tummy; the soul who might’ve

Psalm 27:9
‘Do not hide Your face from me, Do not turn Your servant away in agner; You have been my help; Do not abandon me nor forsake me, o God of my salvation!’

Why did you turn your face from me?—
Back in the playground,
I was a child. You held me,
handless; kissed me,
lipless; loved me,
loveless, wordless
You must have been watching. Why then,
let me sit alone in the swing, the water, the night?

I asked you for three leaves
— fallen
from the trees that grow from your earth.
Three because:
me, myself and I;
father son spirit;
you, me God. Instead,
you gave me a bench filled with
dead leaves.
When I reached out to touch you, you were gone.

Perhaps, I have fallen in love with the feeling of being lost.
In the night, I see nothing. I do not try to search. I feel the pavement under my feet.
I know no one is thinking of me. And so, I am thoughtless, imperceivable untouchable, unknowable.

Perhaps I hide my face from you because I do not want you to look at me. I am too used to hands that do not know how to touch me, words that do not reach me, faces that I do not recognise.

The mud falls into whatever shape it does. The water will seep through loose spaces, separating, dripping from one hole to the next. This will happen again and again, until it flows from river to lake to ocean. The sea will turn into the sky.
A child would reach out his small, dimpled hands and think ‘how blue, how beautiful, how happy’.

Perhaps I like the sky too much. There is nothing to be seen or discerned, it just is.

I touch myself to sleep,
Elbows, neck, the bend under my thighs. I know exactly how and where I want those hands. So somehow, my hands–small and dimpled
They have become enough for me

Do you know when I was next to you, I kept on looking at the rain
(You do not understand how I look at the rain)
I kept on looking at your face–
your slanting factly clenched against the shaking light, swallowing your moans because they are your own. (you do not understand how I look at you)
Your tongue folded me into a little bird. I had been sitting on your shoulder all this time, but you did not notice.

This has to be enough for me– measuring:
1. The length of your fingers
2. The slant of your face
3. The distance between your eyes
4. The distance between you and me: An infinity, because you were never here/ (Or alternative line:)

This is enough for me: holding myself to sleep, exactly how I want to be held; measuring time with words, measuring words with time.